Tennis
A thing I came up with a while back listening to this album. It's messy and likely won't end up as anything more than this.
It's a gloomy, wet, cold day in Fog City. The kind of Saturday that demanded one hole up in bed and ignore the very existence of the outside world. Justine, though, had made a promise to herself the week prior. She would go back to the local tennis courts. The city was taking them down to put in nets for pickleball. The first time Justine had ever attended a city meeting was to argue for them to stay. The city, however, decided that alongside the various other developments downtown would be getting over the fall and winter in preparation for the summer season, the tennis nets had to go.
They said the pickleball's popularity would bring in business.
Justine knew they meant the business of old white ladies who played pickleball and had wine and bought fancy pastries after, instead of the business of young black girls who played tennis and bought cheap juice and ate at the corner stores.
There was nothing she could do, so she decided to hold a personal funeral. She swore that whatever the weather, no matter how she was feeling, no matter what happened, she would go to the courts. None of her friends went with her. They didn't go to the city hall meeting either. They said they'd probably trade their rackets for paddles. Or, if the vibe shifted too much, just sell them and start hanging out somewhere else. Loiter at the mall or something.
The building was unassuming. Plain against the abandoned storefronts and empty apartment buildings that surrounded it. Justine didn't blame the city for wanting to steamroll the place, it was miserable, especially in the fall muck.
Just didn't mean they had to take her damn courts.
She pushes through the dirty glass double doors, and shrugs of her jacket as she hands her library card to the man at the front desk.
“Still comin' round here, Juice? Thought you'd be on strike.” the man at the desk scans her card, and puts the five dollars she put on the front desk in the register.
“They'll have to take my courts out of my cold hands, mister Malone. I'll be back till work starts at least.”
“At least?”
“Might protest.”
Malone laughs and waves Justine off. “the courts are wet. Might just wanna use the practice room.”
“Got it.”
She makes her way to the locker room, stuffing her jacket into a locker and pulling her shoes and racket out of her backpack. Once she's changed her shoes, she starts to step out, stopping at one of the mirrors just in front of the lockers.
She first came here when she was a little girl. Ten, if she remembers right. Her mother had taken her, simply because she felt like they should go. It was such a nice day, after all. Justine knew nothing about tennis back then, and her mom didn't know much more. They missed all their volleys and a good number of their serves, but little Justine had the time of her life that day.
Now, she's much taller. Still skinny, her dark brown hands holding her own racket instead of clumsily clutching a kid sized rental. She's not in proper tennis gear, it's too cold for a skirt and short sleeves. A sweat shirt and pants had to do for today. This wasn't about practice, it was about the principle. She adjusts the yellow headband holding her twists out of her face.
She pokes her head out the back door leading to the courts and confirms that it is, in fact, too cold and gross to do anything out there today. She decides to turn down the hall to the little row of indoor practice rooms instead. She plucks a ball from a small basket in the corner, spins her racket in her hands, and gets to work.
She throws her serve, listens to the empty sound of the ball hitting the wall, bouncing back. She hits it again.
She goes back and forth, slowly. It feels nice. Her limbs warming to the motions, the chill of late fall starting to melt away. If the others were here, there'd no doubt be a speaker playing something. The sound of beats and tennis balls slamming into the wall only to never actually be hit back. Sandra talking about her boyfriend she still has to dump, Angie chasing after the fallen and discarded tennis balls as she tells BB to put one of her favorite songs on next. Someone would inevitably poke fun at Justine for training like she's gonna play at Wimbledon and she'll laugh along and keep her dream of doing exactly that close to her chest.
She wishes they were here. She wishes it was summer.
She wishes it was a blazing hot day, and she and the girls brought ice cups and lemonade. She wishes BB and Angie were fighting over some dude and playing a match over it. She wishes the speaker in the corner would get hit by a ball and start playing some dumb song that makes everyone laugh so hard they fall on the court.
She wishes it was summer.
She misses the ball and watches as it falls to the wood floor.
This isn't fucking fair, Justine thinks as she picks up the ball and hits it at the wall again. It's not fair. She knows things change, that long summers of tennis and talking about nothing would have to end eventually. It wasn't supposed to end like this, though. With the whole routine pulled from under her sneakers. She's supposed to move to another city, get to a college with a tennis program. One of the girls, any of the girls, was supposed to realize they actually gave a shit about this sport and go with her.
How could they just shut all that down? For nothing?
She isn't consciously aware of her hitting the ball harder. Her limbs are starting to burn with the effort, but in the moment all she feels is righteous anger. The burning, awful feeling of it not being fair. The room blurs, and all that exists is the wall, the ball, and her racket.
And the feeling of her perfect future burning up in front of her face.
She launches the ball harder than she thinks she's ever hit a tennis ball before. It snaps her out of her trance just long enough for her to watch it return and slam into her head. She stumbles over and falls. She attempts to get up, the hard wood unforgiving on her wobbly arms. That really shouldn't have gotten her like it did. A little tennis ball?
She tries again, and falls onto her stomach. Something is wrong. She's dizzy, and weak, and she's still so goddamn angry. She wishes the girls were here. She wishes she was up from the goddamn floor.
She wishes it was summer. Her last thought as she slumps to the floor and passes out.
It's hot.
Its extremely hot, and the ground underneath Justine is even hotter. She peels herself up off the burning ground and fights the urge to throw up. The sun beats down on her head, and she's already wiping sweat from her forehead.
What?
She opens her eyes, to find that she's no longer in the cold, wet Fog City fall. She's out on a rubbery surface park area in front of a building that looks like a much nicer rec center than the one in Fog. The sun is high in the sky and seems to bathe the world in gold. She wobbles to her feet, and realizes her sweater and jeans have been replaced with a polo shirt and shorts, both so white she wouldn't have doubted them being some special perfect material designed for whiteness. She reaches for her headband, and sees that's white now too. Who the hell changed her clothes?
She wandered towards the building. It's big, the front covered in blue tinted windows that flashed in the relentlessly bright sun. as Justine stepped closer, recovering from her shock at waking up in this weird, hot place, she hears voices, and the distinct sound of a tennis volley. She pushes open the glass door, hissing as it was hot to the touch. There's a little click as it closes behind her, and she turns to tug at the other side of the door.
Locked.
That was... unsettling. She decides to find the voices. That was only a problem if it was a problem, right?
The inside of the building has all the lights off. The multiple big windows, and the big glass doors let in enough sunlight to not need them. There's no one at the front desk on the left side as you enter. It was a hunk of metal with a black office chair behind it. No register or card reader or anything, but there is a sign in book and a tiny little basket for pens. Justine opens it to see that a bunch of pages had been haphazardly torn out. Only a few blank sheets remained. She jots down “Juice Celosia” with one of the crappy office supply store pens and walks towards the sounds of tennis.
The layout isn't all that different from the center in Fog. Its got more windows, and its definitely newer, all bright white linoleum floors and freshly painted walls. She pushes open the back doors, which were metal and heavy. There was no click as they closed behind her, and she would have been relieved if stepping back into the dry heat didn't immediately sour her mood a little.
There's three big tennis courts. They're beautiful. Big and bright green with pure straight white marking lines. The fences are abnormally high, towering up and over the building itself. In front of each court was an electronic score board, the ones in Justine's immediate view are all red zeroes. On the third court, furthest from the doors, there was a game in progress. A tall girl with rich dark skin and long black braids that trailed to her legs was on one side. She wore a pure white pleated mini skirt and a short sleeved blouse that was short enough to show her midriff. On her head was a white sun visor. She might have been the most beautiful girl Justine had ever seen- definitely the type to pose on some fancy sports magazine for country club people. Or whatever.
On the other side was a boy, also dark skinned but a little lighter and with a red undertone. His black hair was shaved, and he wore white pants and a white polo that matched Justine's own. The girl's gorgeous face was soft and inviting even as she glared in determination. The boy was smiling, but his feature's could only be described as fox like. His opponent was a rabbit he was planning to eat, like in some old fable.
They're really fucking good.
The ball is moving faster than Justine has ever seen a tennis ball move. They volley so fast the only way she could tell who hit last was by the sound of one or the other grunting with the effort to launch the ball. She finds herself dizzy with the effort of trying to keep up. There's suddenly a loud, ear splitting boom, along with the crash of the ball hitting the girl's racket and returning.
Did the guy just break the sound barrier?
Justine genuinely worries for the state of her hearing when the ball crashes into fence on the boy's side of the court. The two stop, panting with exhaustion as they look at the score board.
“.... little better than last time.” The boy says, a smile on his fox face.
“Little better don't mean shit.” The girl flips her hair out of her face as she stands straight. Her gaze flicks over to Justine, and she jolts, immediately pointing to her. “New girl! New girl!”
The boy cocks his head at her as if she's insane, then turns to Justine. A smile stretches across his face, like he was sizing her up for his next meal. “Look at that. New girl.”
“Uh...” Justine starts, but nothing comes out after that.
“You play? I think you only end up here if you play.” The boy is walking closer, twirling his racket in his hand as he crosses the middle court and into the one closest to Justine. She recovers from her shock and starts to follow.
“Play...?” Justine feels herself blush, the blood rushing to her face boiling in the summer sun. “I mean! Yes! Tennis! Duh, yes, I play tennis. How- how did you...?” She looks at the tennis ball they were using, that had bounced back to the net after slamming into the net.
“You get the hang of it.” The boy smiles, offering his hand, which Justine shakily takes. “Spencer, pleased to meetcha.” He nudges the girl over, who takes Justine's hand, though there's still a wary pout on her face.
“Bijou Rose. You good?”
“H-Huh?”
“Are you good. At the game. You gotta be good.”
“I think I'm good?”
“You won't make it.”
The boy chuckles and points to the zeroed out score board on their left. “See that? It keeps game score, but also, if you hit the ball against the fence, it'll tell you how fast it was goin' and how hard it hit. We've been trying to max it out since we got here.
“How... how long have you been here?”
“Me? Like a year.” the boy smiles.
“A year!?”
“Seven months.” Bijou says, frowning. “We figure the only way to get home is to max out the boards. We cracked the sound barrier a couple months ago.”
“So now, the working theory is, we gotta hit light speed.” the boy looks up at the board.
“... we can't leave until we hit the ball as fast as light?” Justine whispers. She feels an awful sinking sensation in her stomach. Her legs are weak, and she falls to her knees, getting cut up on the court. “we're never gonna leave- oh god I'm never gonna get home-”
“Here we go.” Bijou frowns. “Maybe we should've eased her in on that.”
“Oh, she's passing out.”
And Justine was. Blissfully fading away.
Maybe this was all a dream.
I don't have any clue how to play tennis.